And they’ll do just what they want and kill everyone and I hate them, hate them, hate them. And I’m slamming the chair down again.

“I’m going to have to put you in the cage if you carry on like that.”

I throw the chair and leap at Celia, shouting.

I wake in the cage, shackles on.

A few weeks after Celia tells me about Gran, I’m collecting eggs. I’m thinking about Gran and her hens and how they tried to get into the house, and Gran with her beekeeper’s hat on, lifting the honeycombs . . .

I put the egg basket on the ground and listen.

Listen hard.

A faint, not-quite-there sound; distant, but somewhere in the hills.

And a clatter from the kitchen.

I run on to the wall and from there leap onto the cage to look toward the southwest, where Marcus will come from in my fantasy.

The hills sit there quietly, giving nothing away. I swivel around, looking and listening, holding my breath.

That is not the wind.

It’s a growling, a distant growling.

Celia is at the kitchen window staring at me. She hasn’t heard it but knows something is up ’cause I’m on the cage. She disappears then reappears at the front door. And now it’s there, the unmistakable sound.

Not my father. A vehicle.

“Get in the cottage!” Celia shouts at me.

A 4x4 appears as a distant black cube moving along the track.

“Get off the cage!”

But if these are people, real people—fains, walkers, holidaymakers—then I must be able to do something. I’ll tell them I’ve been kept in the cage. The choker—they might be able to get it off. Maybe I should wait until she gets rid of them and . . . club her with something . . .

But then she changes. Her body slumps a fraction. She says, “Get in the cage, Nathan.” Her voice is flat now. She knows who it is.

I watch the jeep for a couple of seconds more before jumping down and going into the cage.

“Padlock it.”

She walks toward the track.

I pull the door shut but don’t lock it. I go to the back of the cage and find my nail in the soil. I put it in my mouth, digging it into my cheek and healing it over.

The jeep revs and churns louder. It stops at the far side of the cottage. Celia walks over to it.

She’s talking through the driver’s window. Waving her hands around, in frustration it looks like. Unusually dramatic for her.

I can’t see the driver.

The jeep doors open and Celia is holding her arms wide as if she can stop them. They are almost as big as her. All in black, of course. I don’t see the driver’s face until Celia moves to the side, but I know who it is.

Have they come to kill me? What other reason? To give Celia instructions to do it? Do I padlock the cage now? It seems pretty pointless.

Clay is walking toward me.

Celia is a step behind him, and behind her are two female Hunters.

Celia says, “But I’ve not been informed about this.”

“You’re being informed now. Get him out of the cage.”

Celia doesn’t hesitate for more than a second before she swings the door open.

They can only be here to kill me. Maybe they’ll walk me to the end of the field and do it there, or not even go to the trouble of that, just do it by the cage. I’ll be buried with the potatoes. And this must mean that they’ve killed Marcus. They don’t need me any more. My father is dead.

“Come out.” Clay’s voice is casual.

I back up and shake my head. They’ll have to kill me here. And I can’t believe my father is dead.

Then I hear a buzzing in my head—not Celia, a phone. And it’s not coming from the Hunters behind Celia; it’s closer. I feel something grab my right arm and go around my wrist, and the fourth Hunter materializes beside me. He’s as big and as ugly as I remembered. Kieran is holding my arm, the handcuff now visible. I try to strike his face with my free hand but he drops down, pulling me by the handcuff, and another of the Hunters has run into the cage and grabbed my left arm. I get a kick in to a female Hunter, but then I’m slammed into the bars, my arms are cuffed tightly behind me, and I’m slammed into the bars twice more.

“Move again and I’ll rip your arms out,” Kieran growls in my ear.

The great thing about hate is that it takes away everything else so that nothing else matters. So then the old trick is easy. I don’t mind about having my arms ripped off, about pain, about anything. I whip my head back and catch Kieran in the face, a cushioned scrunch of his nose on the back of my skull.

He squeals but doesn’t loosen his grip.

My arms get pulled up so I can’t move, but they don’t get ripped off, so I’ve got to wonder how serious Kieran really is.

Kieran drags me out of the cage and pushes me to the ground, but I roll and kick up so my boot makes contact with the side of his face. Roll again and get to my feet, but the two female Hunters are on me then and the punch to my kidneys is explosive.

I’m on my knees, my face on the path.

Celia is shouting at Clay, “This is unacceptable! I’m his guardian.”

Clay’s voice is calm. He says, “The orders are for us to take him.”

There’s a boot on my head keeping my face crushed against the ground.

Celia complains, argues, says she has to come, says she’s going to come, but Clay is good. He just says no.

In the end Celia says she has to take the choker off me. She asks permission.

As she unlocks it her hands are gentle and she says, “I’m going to follow you down.”

Clay says, “No. We’re going to have to borrow your van. He’s too dangerous to risk putting in the jeep.”

“Then I’ll drive your jeep.”

“No, Megan’ll drive it. If you insist on coming I suppose you could ride with her.”

There’s a threat in his voice; Celia must hear it. Megan couldn’t hurt Celia, but she’ll go the wrong way, get lost, run out of petrol. Celia won’t risk falling out with the Hunters; she’ll stay here. She’ll do what they want.

“Oh yes, I was supposed to give you this.” Clay’s voice is casual again now.

“A notification! When did this happen?”

He doesn’t reply.

“Two days ago? I should have been told. He’s my responsibility.”

Clay still doesn’t reply.

“It says that all Half Codes are to be ‘codified.’ What does that mean?” And I know Celia is saying all this for my benefit.

“I’m just providing the transport, Celia.”

“I’ll come down—”

But Clay cuts in. “I’ve told you the situation, Celia. He’s ours.”

“And when are you bringing him back?”

“I haven’t got instructions about that.”

I’m in Celia’s van, face down on the metal floor. It’s nearly two years since I was last here, and yet the rusting paint seems familiar.

Kieran has begun to heal his broken nose but it’s well mashed. He is holding a chain that is attached to my handcuffs and wrapped round my ankles, and he jerks on it to pass the time.

Clay is sitting in the passenger seat at the front, Tamsin is driving, Megan is following in the 4x4, and I guess Celia is still at the cottage.

The only thing to do is rest, but as soon as I doze Kieran yanks at my ankles or lashes my buttocks with the chain. When he’s fed up with that he shouts to the front of the van, “Hey, Tamsin, I’ve got another.”

“Yeah?” she shouts back.

“What’s the difference between a Half Code and a trampoline?”

She doesn’t answer and I get a heavy stomp on my back as Kieran says, “You take your shoes off to jump on a trampoline.”

His next joke he says quietly, just sharing it with me. “What’s the difference between a Half Code and an onion?” He lifts my shirt up. I feel his fingers scratch over the lower part of my scars, his scars, as he says, “Cutting up an onion makes you cry.”